Ruth Potter and the Sorcerers Stone
by Ravenclaw in Shining Armor
Summary: What if Lily and James Potter had had a bouncing baby girl instead of a bumbling boy? This is the story of Ruth Potter, the Girl Who Lived. Rated T for hints at abuse from the Dursleys. I know the first few chapters will be a pretty cannon, but bear with me, okay? Also, check out the poll on my profile!
1. The Girl Who Lived

**A/N: Hullo, hullo, hullo! This is the first chapter, of the the first part of the 'Ruth Potter' series! Please check out the poll on my profile. I love to hear from my readers! I accept any feedback, positive or negative, and I will try to reply to it all. Flames, praises, anything! Also, this story will not be completely compliant to the books. So if that's not your style, leave now! One last thing: enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _anything _in this chapter besides minor tweaks. It's practically straight from the book, so it belongs to J.K. Rowling.**

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Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors.

The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere. The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street.

The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small daughter, the same age as Dudley, but they had never even seen her. This girl was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country.

Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work,and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map.

For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs.

Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.

Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by.

They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt - these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it.

The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime.

Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their daughter, Ruth," Mr. Dursley stopped dead.

Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid.

Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a daughter called Ruth. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his niece was called Ruth.

He'd never even seen the girl. It might have been Ruby. Or Rumilda. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her - if he'd had a sister like that...but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell.

It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!" And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination..

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw - and it didn't improve his mood - was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look.

Was this normal cat behaviour? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!").

Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: "And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin.

"Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight." Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair.

Shooting stars all over Britain. Owls flying by daylight. Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place. And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls...shooting stars...and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought...maybe...it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their daughter - she'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't she?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's her name again? Ruttie, isn't it?"

"Ruth. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree." He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed.

While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there.

It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on - he yawned and turned over - it couldn't affect them...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots.

His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome

He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop.

He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Deluminator, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Deluminator back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall." He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone.

Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here." Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently.

"You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no - even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls...shooting stars...Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors." She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore."

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name. All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort."

Professor McGonagall flinched but Dumbledore, who was un-sticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too - well - noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying. About why he's disappeared. About what finally stopped him."

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they're - dead. " Dumbledore bowed his head.

Professor McGonagall gasped. "Lily and James...I can't believe it...I didn't want to believe it...Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know...I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's daughter, Ruth. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little girl. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Ruth Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's - it's true," faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done...all the people he's killed...he couldn't kill a little girl. It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Ruth survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles.

Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge.

It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way."

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places."

"I've come to bring Ruth to her aunt and uncle. They're the only family she has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here." cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore - you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Ruth Potter come and live here?!"

"It's the best place for her," said Dumbledore firmly. "Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter." repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter. These people will never understand her! She'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Ruth Potter day in the future - there will be books written about Ruth - every child in our world will know her name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any child's head. Famous before she can walk and talk! Famous for something she won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off she'll be, growing up away from all that until she's ready to take it."

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes - yes, you're right, of course. But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Ruth underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing her."

"You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this."

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "But you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got her, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got her out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. She fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby girl, fast asleep. Under a tuft of fiery red hair over her forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -." whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "She'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give her here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Ruth in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I - could I say good-bye to her, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Ruth and gave her what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily an' James dead - an' poor little Ruth off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Ruth gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Ruth's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "That's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir." Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Deluminator. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Ruth," he murmured.

He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Ruth Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside her and she slept on, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that she would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...She couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Ruth Potter - the girl who lived!"

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**Finally! My eyes are on fire, but it's done. Review, flame, and opinionate!**


	2. Brazilian Nights

**A/N: Here, my dear readers, is the second chapter! Not much to say. Check out the poll, and review!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. It all belongs to J.K. Rowling, except Ruth.**

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Almost ten years had passed since the Dursleys had found a baby girl on their front step, but Private Drive was still the prim, neat place it had been a decade ago. The sun still shone into the almost identical living room. The only thing that had changed were the photographs on the mantle. As Dudley had grown to the oversized boy he was today, the old pictures had been swapped for new ones. You would have had no idea that another child lived there.

But she was there, and Ruth Potter was sleeping soundly. However, her slumber didn't last much longer. Her Aunt Petunia was already up and her squawking voice was the first thing poor Ruth heard when she was woken up by knuckles rapping on her door.

"Get up! Now!" Petunia shrilled loudly, and the ten year old bolted upwards, smacking her head on a low beam. Ruth groaned in pain and sat on the edge of her cot, rubbing her forehead and yawing. She heard the clatter of the pan being set on the stove and remembered - it was Dudleys birthday. That meant if she didn't get everything perfect, she's have to face her Uncle Vernon and what he had in store. Ruth shuddered and tossed on a dusty old dress that had once belonged to Petunia. It was many sizes to big for tiny Ruth, but she didn't dare complain.

She threw the door to her cupboard open and walked to the kitchen. The dining table was almost hidden by Dudley's gigantic pile of presents. It seemed he'd gotten that racing bike he'd asked for. Why he would want a bike was beyond Ruth, for she knew Dudley _hated _exercise. Well, except punching people. He especially liked punching Ruth. He seemed to enjoy making her mouth bleed by getting her braces caught on her lips. But she usually got away from him before he could catch her. She was small, but she was fast. Maybe it had to do with the fact that the Dursleys horribly underfed her, but Ruth had always been petite for her age.

Ruth had a heart shaped face, freckles, red hair, and hazel eyes. Obviously, she had braces. But that was the only thing the Dursleys had _ever _bought her. Literally. And even her braces were the cheapest money could buy. But she wasn't about to complain about them, or else Vernon would get into one of his 'Rages', as Ruth had come to call them. She also had a thin scar in the shape of a lighting bolt on her forehead. She had wondered how she'd gotten it, and that was one of the first questions she'd asked her aunt and uncle.

"When your parents got in a car crash and died. Now, no more questions!"

That was one of the many rules given to her by her 'Family'. 'Don't ask questions'. But Ruth had a curious nature and had asked many questions when she was younger. Unfortunately, she'd learned the hard way that the Dursley's weren't very forgiving when it came to questions.

She was flipping the bacon over when Vernon Dursley lumbered in with a newspaper clutched in his hand. He glanced at Ruth, who tried to look busy by pressing the bacon down. He grunted, which Ruth took as a sign of approval. She released a sigh, and used the spatula she'd used to flip the bacon, setting the fully cooked bacon and eggs on five separate plates She made sure she gave herself the smallest amount. She didn't need nor want Uncle Vernon ranting about how greedy she was. Ruth carefully set the plates on any available space of table she could find.

During all this, Dudley had been slowly counting his presents. His round face fell when he was finished.

"Thirty six. That's two less than last year."

"Duddykins, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's gift, the big one under the table."

"Alright, thirty seven then!" Dudley's face twisted and his chins began to wobble. Ruth sensed an impending tantrum and began to scarf down her food. Her aunt seemed to smell trouble as well. She rushed over to Dudley and began smoothing down his blond hair.

"And, while we're out, Mummy will buy you two more gifts. How's that, Sweetums?" The way Ruth's cousin was concentrating, you would've thought he was calculating an extremely hard algebraic equation.

"So that's thirty...thirty..."

"Thirty nine, Darling."

"Oh. All right then." Dudley sat heavily into his seat and grabbed the nearest gift. The telephone started to trill and and Aunt Petunia got up to get it. Ruth watched as he opened a racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was wrenching the paper off a golden wristwatch when Petunia came back, both furious and anxious.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said, "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg and can't keep her." Ruth's aunt jerked her head at her. Dudley's jaw dropped in horror, but Ruth's heart soared in hope. Every year on Dudley's birthday, the Dursley's took him and a friend to all sorts of fun places Ruth knew she'd never go. Adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, and the movies. Every year, Ruth was left at Mrs. Figgs house, which always smelled of cabbage. The mad woman made Ruth look at pictures of all the cats she'd ever owned.

"What do we do?" Aunt Petunia fumed, shooting a glare at Ruth as if she was the one who'd broken Mrs. Figgs leg.

"We could phone Marge." Her uncle suggested.

"Don't be dim, Vernon, the women hates the girl."

Ruth hated when they talked about her like that. As if she weren't in the room or some disgusting bit of food left over from the dishes. But she kept her mouth firmly shut. She didn't need to make her day any worse by fanning the flames of her uncles wrath.

"What about your friend, Yvonne?"

"She's still on vacation in Majorca."

"Y-you could always just leave me here," Ruth stuttered pitifully. She was hoping she could sneak into Dudley's room and watch a little T.V. He had two, didn't he?

"And come back to find the house in ruins?" Aunt Petunia snapped.

"I won't blow the house up," Ruth said quietly, but, not surprisingly to the ten year old, no one was listening.

"I suppose we could take her to the zoo..." Her aunt said slowly, "...and leave her in the car..."

"That car's new; we're not leaving her in there!" Vernon protested, glancing at Ruth in such a way that made her shrink back in her chair.

Dudley began to wail loudly. He wasn't crying - it had been years since he'd actually cried - but Petunia was very gullible when it came to her son and began to rock him back and forth. Her thin arms hardly fit around him, but somehow she made it work.

"Dinky Duddydums, I won't let her ruin your special day!"

"I d-d-don't want h-her t-to come!" He cried through huge fake sobs, "She a-always r-r-ruins e-everything!" Dudley shot Ruth a nasty grin. She huffed softly at the unfairness of it all. At that moment, the doorbell rang. Dudley stopped 'Crying' at once. Aunt Petunia smoothed her short blond hair frantically. She _always _made sure to look her best when other moms were around. It was as if she was in a competition with them, to see who was the best one.

"They're here! Oh good lord!" She rushed to the door and opened it, and Dudleys rat faced best friend, Piers Polkiss came in with his mother.

Half an hour later, Ruth couldn't believe her luck. She was sitting in the backseat with Dudley and Piers, on her way to the zoo for the very first time in her life. Before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken her aside and told her if she tried any 'Funny business', she'd be locked in her cupboard until Christmas. Ruth had mumbled a reply, but she'd internally wondered why he'd said such a thing. What could she possibly do that he considered 'Funny business'?

Of course, it shouldn't go without saying that there had been a few incidents that had could be seen as 'Funny business'. Like the time when she accidentally turned her teachers clothes bright orange and blue. She had been colouring, and thought Mrs. Jakilo's clothes were very boring. Then, like magic, they'd turn as bright as a rainbow! That was exactly what she'd told the Principal and the Dursleys.

She learned to never mention magic around them again. They had no imagination. Whether it was on a cartoon or from Ruth's mind, she wouldn't utter anything out of the ordinary or risk punishment from her uncle.

Said uncle growled as a motorcycle guzzled by the car in a blur.

"Hoodlums. Thinking they own the roads!"

Ruth thought about the dream she'd had of the flying motorcycle, but was smart enough to keep quiet. She wished she had one in reality, then she'd get as far away from the Dursleys as possible. Ruth was so lost in her Dursley-free fantasy, she didn't notice the car stop. Only the slamming of Dudleys door brought her back to the real world. She quickly scrambled out of the vehicle before Uncle Vernon could start snapping at her.

By the time they got to the Reptiles, Ruth was brimming with happiness. She's had loads of fun looking at the animals, especially the monkeys and gorillas. She'd giggled when she saw Dudley close to one. They could've been twins if it weren't for the blond hair!

When her aunt and uncle had gotten Dudley and Piers fudge cones, they hadn't been quick enough leaving. Ruth's aunt and uncle had ordered her the cheapest thing on the menu - a lemon ice-lolly. But as she licked it, she silently thought today was one of the best days of her life.

She wished she'd known better.

Dudley and Piers had their noses smashed against the glass of the snake exhibit. It lay, unmoving. Dudley whined for his father to wake it up. But try as he might, Uncle Vernon couldn't get the snake up, even after many knuckle rapping attempts. Soon, the two boys lost interest. Ruth walked over to the snake and smiled apologetically.

"You must see those sorts of people all the time, huh?" Slowly, the snake opened its eyes and lifted its head. Then it _nodded_, letting out what sounded like a sigh. Its forked tongue flicked. Ruth looked around, seeing nobody around her.

"Where are you from?" She asked timidly, praying her uncle wouldn't come over to see her talking to a snake. It pointed its tail at the little sign giving information about the breed. She read it quickly.

"Bred in the zoo? It must get boring here, having to watch foolish tourists all the time. I wonder what it's like in Brazil. I hope I can go somewhere like that someday. Well, I hope I can go anywhere _but _here." The snake _hissed_, but not in any way that scared Ruth. It almost sounded apologetic. Suddenly, the quiet in the dark room was shattered by Piers shouting,

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME OVER HERE! COME LOOK WHAT THE SNAKE'S DOING!" Dudley came waddling over so fast is face was red from exertion. He pushed Ruth over, and she was caught by surprise. She landed on her bum on the hard cement floor. Everything happened quickly after that.

One moment, the two ten year olds were leaning on the glass, the next, they were splashing around _inside _the tank. They howled with terror. Ruth couldn't contain the giggle that bubbled up. Luckily, no one was paying attention to her. The snake flicked its tongue at them, and they let out high-pitched shrieks. It slithered out the of the tank. People in the house started to scream and rush towards the exit. As it made its swift exit, she swore it said in a low, hissing voice,

_"Brazil, here I come. Thankssss amigo!"_

The Keeper of the Reptile Houses hands were trembling as he fixed himself and Aunt Petunia a strong, sugary cups of tea. The man was in utter shock.

"The glass! Where did it go!?" He kept muttering. He apologized over and over to Ruth's aunt. Piers and Dudley were soaked and had towels thrown over their shoulders. The Boa had only stuck its tongue out at them as far as Ruth knew, but by the time they were in the car, they were going on about how it had tried to bite Piers and Dudley had bravely fended it off with a rock. Ruth knew that was a big lie, and that they had in fact been screaming like little girls, the lot of them.

"Ruth, you were talking to it, weren't you?"

Ruth cheeks flushed and she fought the urge to cry. She was in for it now. Uncle Vernon waited until Piers had left with his mother before he turned to Ruth.

"YOU-YOU VILE LITTLE GIRL! WHAT DID YOU DO? WE'VE TRIED TO HARD TO STAMP ALL OF THE-THE-THE-" Uncle Vernon was like a raging bull. He swung his hand back and connected it with Ruth's cheek. She stumbled backwards and landed on her bottom.

"GO TO YOUR CUPBOARD! NO MEALS UNTIL-UNTIL I SAY SO!" Then he sagged into an armchair and her aunt rushed to the kitchen to get him a large Brandy. Holding her stinging face, Ruth scrambled to her room, and collapsed onto her bed. She felt tears run down her cheeks but made no move to wipe them away. She curled up into a ball on her bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

She dreamed of a blinding green light and a horrible scream. This wasn't the first time she'd dreamed of this. This was part of the crash, she supposed. The scream probably belonged to her mother. She had no clue what the flash was. A street light? Headlights? None sounded likely. Ruth could remember nothing of her parents, and her aunt and uncle had done nothing to fill her in. What was her mothers? Her red hair? Her hazel eyes? Or was her father a redhead? She had never seen pictures and could only use her own looks for support.

For ten long years she'd been at this wretched place, and hoped, dreamed that some long lost relative would come and take her away. That they would provide Ruth with the love and care the poor little girl so desperately needed and wanted. Sometimes, she thought people she met knew her. Once, she'd gone to the grocery store with Petunia and a man in a violet cloak and top hat had bowed to her and shaken her hand. Aunt Petunia had furious but hadn't told her husband about it, to which she was grateful. He would have lashed out, for sure.

At school, she had no one either. She was the target of Dudley and his band of nitwits. No one messed with his gang. Besides, who would want to be friends with weird, baggy dressed, freckled, metal mouthed Ruth Potter?

* * *

**Finished with chappie two! Check out my poll, please! Read, flame, and opinionate**


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